Night Song

The room lies vague

beyond the small glare of the tensor lamp.

Two circles of light cluster like daisies

in the blackness beyond the window:

one's a neighbor's porch light, one's down

further, by the road.

The darkness hums even-paced

under your snores irregular as a dripping tap,

jagged as thunder.

What is there to see in a dark house?

Refrigerator's whirring and clicking,

two cars going past, one right after the other.

More for the ears than the eyes.

The dog shifts in his sleep, bumps the door,

our child rustles in his blankets.

Only the old hamster

creeps over to his plastic wheel

and starts the nightly run

on his red wheel

through Siberian fields of grain

that toss and quiver as quietly,

as edibly, as sleep.